


Settle This Like Warriors

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fights, Fluff, Insomnia, Len is a workaholic and Mick is annoyed, Len pulls a Black Widow, M/M, Married Life, as much as these two are capable of anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 18:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5795770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mick Rory enjoys simple things: food, beer, robbing, blazing flames. Sleep is a bit of an inconvenience, because if he’s sleeping he can’t enjoy any of those simple things, but he recognizes its necessity. Although he’s got problems staying asleep, usually he gets a few hours here and there, which is enough for him.</p><p>His partner, on the other hand…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Settle This Like Warriors

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a Carter Hall fan, but that "settle this like warriors" got me thinking about dccoldwave last night, and when I woke up this morning I thought wELL better write it in case my power goes out and I can't do it later.
> 
> I debated on whether or not to change this rating to T. It's on the cusp, but really, G for this pairing is technically a T soooo?
> 
> Also, in the comics, Mick admits that his gun is called The Duke, after John Wayne. So that's why that's in here.

Mick inhales sharply as he suddenly opens his eyes. He’s caught mid-roll, as usual, blinking rapidly as whatever dream he’d been having fades rapidly from memory. It’ll be at least an hour or two before he can go back to sleep.

Grumbling, Mick reaches out for Len. Clutching a body to him usually shaves half an hour from that waiting time. When his hand touches nothing but empty sheets, Mick opens his eyes fully on a glare.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters.

In an instant he’s thrown off the covers and trudging out of the tiny space they call the master bedroom in this joint. Through there, it’s a living room, walk down the small hallway, open the door—yep, there he is.

Mick reiterates: _for fuck’s sake_.

This room, bedecked with the Rogues’ weapons on its walls, has a metal table in the center, a fluorescent light dangling over it. Standing behind it, pouring over blueprints and diagrams, is none other than Leonard-fucking-Snart. Despite the late winter chill pervading the safehouse, he’s dressed only in thin navy pajama pants and a grey t-shirt.

Crossing his arms, Mick snaps, “What’re you doing?”

Len doesn’t bother to look up, circling another escape route on the building. “What does it look like I’m doing, Mick?”

Bags weigh on his eyes, made more prominent by his pale face. He hasn’t been sleeping well—never does when he’s planning. Somehow Len is under the impression that if he gets a good night’s sleep the night before a heist, he somehow makes up for every all-nighter leading up to it. Annoys Mick to no end.

“Looks like you’re bein’ stupid,” says Mick. Len finally glances up, but only to look severely unimpressed. “Three in the morning, Snart. You’re done.”

“And here I thought I was the one who gave orders.”

“Not when you’re an idiot.”

Another note, this time on a schedule of guard changes. Mick grinds his teeth.

Snart doesn’t respond well to being man-handled, so it looks like Plan B’ll have to work.

Len blinks once, pencil hovering over papers that are now scattered on the floor. He sighs, frustrated.

“ _Mick_ ,” yeah, there it is.

“Oh I’m sorry Snowflake,” goads Mick, “that wasn’t very cool of me, was it?”

Len glares at him. His glasses slip on his nose—they’re set to right with a sharp push. “Pick those up.”

“No.”

Mick smirks as Len’s lip curls in a challenge. “Pick. Those up.”

“Not gonna happen, Snart. I’m not your dog.”

“Sure about that?”

Fire ignites in Mick’s veins. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Havin’ someone sit at your feet and lick your balls on command?”

“Thought that was what you already did.”

A loud, smashing _clatter_ reverberates off the walls as the table hits the floor. Neither heat nor cold guns are needed here, though Mick loves the look of Duke waiting on their wall, just _waiting_ to consume this room in a glorious blaze.

Snart shows no reaction other than his irritating smirk. “Very mature, Mick,” he says.

“You asked for it.”

Then they’re off. In a flurry of furious limbs, Mick and Len collide. At first, Mick thinks he can easily pin Len to his precious papers, but he should’ve known better than that—Len knows how to use his leaner build to his advantage against people with his partner’s size. In a moment, Len Black Widows him, jumping from the concrete floor and wrapping his thighs around Mick’s neck. They go down like a stone.

Pain shoots up Mick’s body as he collides with the floor, but he’s just getting started. Using his strength, he flips Len over and shoves himself from between his legs. Len blocks his punch, thrusting his knee towards Mick’s gut. Mick rolls out of the way.

Snart’s fast, a methodical fighter, but his exhaustion is gonna slow him down. Mick’s counting on that, shooting back across the room with a growl. As he thought, Len barely makes it out of the way where he normally would’ve been long gone. By the twitch in Len’s brow, he knows it too.

Of course he’s not gonna give up though. If anything, Len launches himself at him with twice as much ferocity. Mick hisses out a surprised breath as a punch lands square across his jaw. This time, his head narrowly escaped banging against the upturned table.

“Oo,” he grins, all teeth. A second later, he’s kicking Snart off; he catches Len before he hits the floor, cradling the back of his head. “I could just set your precious plans on fire, get this over with.”

Len’s smirk lights his eyes. “Since when do you take the easy way out?”

He yanks Mick into a bruising kiss. Mick clamps his teeth on his bottom lip hard enough for blood to fill their mouths. A feral thrill blazes in his gut at the animalistic moan that escapes Len’s throat as the copper tang flows along his tongue.

But Len’s movements are heavy, and soon the kiss deteriorates into a soft caress, Len limp and pliant. He’s conceded.

They separate, Len spitting blood on the guards’ schedule. Mick pushes himself to his feet, offering a hand that he takes.

“Better?”

A hum. “…three in the morning.” Mick grunts an affirmative. “You were rolling, then?”

Mick crosses his arms. “Not like you to lose track of time, Snart. Gettin’ slow in your old age.”

Len shoves at his shoulder on his way out. Mick snorts, then follows him as he always does, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

One of the funny things Len does when he’s tired: he throws off his glasses and lets himself fall face-first onto the mattress. Mick lands beside him on his back; once they stop bouncing, they turn on their sides and pull the covers over each other.

“You’re cleaning that room,” slurs Len.

Mick rolls his eyes, pulling him under his chin. “And then you’ll be right behind me tellin’ me I’m not doing it right. No thanks.”

Len doesn’t reply, because he knows Mick’s right. Quiet settles.

Then: “If we infiltrate the north entrance, we’ll have forty-four seconds to get around the corner—”

“Where’d you learn that move?”

Against Mick’s neck, Len’s lips pull into a small smile. He knows which one Mick means. “Who d’you think taught Lisa to fight?”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

Len’s cold hand warms itself under Mick’s shirt. Mick suppresses a shudder, irritated.

“Taught myself,” Len murmurs. “While the guards are changing, Lisa—”

“You taught yourself how to Black Widow?”

Len huffs. “There was a parkour gym near my granddad’s house. I—” a yawn forces its way out, “—went there on the weekends and practiced. Took me a few years, but I got it. Piper could hack into their security system, cause a distraction at one end while we—”

“Len.”

“What?”

“Either you talk about your Black Widow move or you shut the fuck up.”

Len’s eyelids flutter, tickling Mick’s skin. “Hmm.”

Not even a snarky comeback. He’s been half-asleep even while he was talking. Moron never knows when to quit yammering.

Sure enough—“Don’ roll on me.”

Mick tightens his hold. “No promises, _dear_.”

A weak smack. Minute later, Len’s under.

It takes a while, but Mick follows.

**Author's Note:**

> LET THIS SHIP RISE
> 
> Thank you for reading :D


End file.
